


I don't need you (but maybe I do)

by Frostwells



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: 02x10, Chinatown, F/M, Facial Shaving, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hair Washing, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Older Man/Younger Woman, unspoken feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 13:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14812488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostwells/pseuds/Frostwells
Summary: He had never once considered himself an invalid. The reliance and assistance of another individual other than his own and placing his trust in them – that was a completely foreign concept for Flynn. In his eyes, help was a sign of weakness on his part – pity on theirs.But seeing honeyed eyes peering down at him, almost hallowed, and her wet hands threaded in his soaked, dark hair, maybe it was okay to throw caution in the wind. Just this once.





	I don't need you (but maybe I do)

**Author's Note:**

> When I saw Flynn walk in the bunker with an arm sling, my first thought was how he was able to look that fine with an injured arm?? And this AU fic was born.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Timeless! If I did, we would've gotten that 8 hour conversation of Flynn and Lucy "just talking." AND THE MORNING AFTER SCENE WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN DELETED. 
> 
> Claimer: I do own all my caffeine induced grammatical mistakes. My bad.

In their line of work, it was to be expected that there was a high possibility of a fatality, whether it be at the hands of their enemies or their own. After all, before the simpler, modern times of iPhones, Wi-Fi, semi-automatic guns, the past wasn’t all that luxurious. As primitive it may sound, it was either kill or be killed.

What wasn’t fair was being killed in 1888, San Francisco, by a woman with a standard, modern glock who hailed from the twenty-first century.

At least, that’s what the historian believed Rufus would’ve said if he were still alive.

But he’s not.

The pilot had manage to defy his psychic, time travelling girlfriend’s visions by not perishing at the hands of a Rittenhouse lackey. He had saved Jiya and in return, she had saved him. Though, while one can run away from their future, they cannot escape their destiny.

And Rufus’s destiny was to die in 1888 in the Chintown district, surrounded by Chinamen, horses, the atmosphere laden with a putrid odor of urine. Out of the countless futures Jiya had foresaw, Rufus escaping the rundown saloon only to be shot by Emma herself was not one of them.

They left the pilot’s body in a rundown alleyway, unable to give him a proper burial in fear of Emma sending reinforcement to kill them off, especially Lucy. After murdering her mother and great-grandfather, Lucy was the only Rittenhouse royalty remaining from the Keyne-Preston bloodline that stood in the ginger’s way. If it weren’t for Flynn running after the distraught historian, there was no doubt in anyone’s minds that there would’ve been another casualty among them.

So, doing the only thing they could, Jiya and Wyatt moved his body to the alleyway, praying that his body would not be decimated by the locals. Though, they both knew that was a small chance, considering the era they saved Jiya from only counted on surviving. There was no one to identify his body, no one in that era to mourn over an unknown Negro. The people back in the twenty-first century would remember Rufus Carlin.

The pilot’s death had hit Lucy hard. Not only was he a pilot and engineer for the team, Rufus was their friend; _her_ friend. Hell, she even considered him to be a brother she never had. Perhaps, if he wasn’t murdered by Emma’s hands, maybe her grief wouldn’t be this unbearable. Just a few hours before Rufus’s death, the Rittenhouse spy had murdered her mother. If that wasn’t bad enough, Carol admitted to have purposely erased Amy from the timeline just so they could have more time together as mother and daughter. Her one regret was not introducing Lucy to her heritage earlier.

If she had to count, the death toll for her that was day was up to three; her mother, sister and her brother.

So, she ran.

But this time, she didn’t run away. No, she ran towards the killer that murdered the people she once held dear to her. Fueled by hate, blinded by the sporadic desire to avenge her fallen family, Lucy chased after Emma, not caring of the consequences. For once, the historian didn’t care if history would be changed by doing so or even if she died in the process if it meant finally killing her.

Weaving through the mud, galloping horses and busy crowds, the historian finally managed to corner the ginger in a secluded hallway in a rundown building. She didn’t know where exactly, but for once, Lucy didn’t care. All that matter to her was putting a bullet through the ginger’s head.

As usual, fate wasn’t on her side. The pistol was empty, much to her horror, and Emma took advantage of her misfortune, pummeling her to a pulp. Lucy didn’t have it in her to fight back. If this was her final moments, then so be it. Let her suffering finally come to an end.

Everything else became a blur to her. She vaguely heard the horrified shout of her name in the distance, Emma shifting her weight off her body. The cool air hit her lungs harshly as Lucy struggled to breathe, coughing fitfully while trying to greedily gulp down air. 

She vaguely registered the fact Flynn saved her. She only saw the glinting metal of the gun reflected in the dim lighting of the hallway. Overcome by only anger and hatred, Lucy snatched the gun out of his grasp, not caring of his protests and flung herself down the corridor, rapidly shooting at the fleeing body.

She missed every shot.

Lucy collapsed on the dirty ground, sobbing, feeling utterly defeated. Flynn shifted himself beside her, wriggling the gun out of her grip. Lifeless and limp, the older man struggled to lift her into his arms, letting out groans of pain from when Emma had shot him. Yet, he was adamant on holding Lucy close to him.

Flynn cradled her head underneath his large palm, quietly hushing her as one would do to a crying child.

“Shh, she’s gone,” Flynn murmured, his face utterly broken at the sight of Lucy weeping. “She’s gone.”

A calloused hand smoothed across her bloodied face as a sobbed wracked out. Lucy grasped his wrist tightly and she called out brokenly to him. “Flynn,” she cried out, almost breathlessly, craning her head to look up at him. “I can’t.” Lucy’s grip was like a vice, unable – no, unwilling – to let him go, as if she did, he would disappear from her life like her family. “I can’t.”

Flynn brought his forehead down hers, offering whatever comfort he can provide, cradling her face close to his. He closed his eyes and gently rocked the broken woman in a slow rhythm despite his shoulder screaming at him in pain.

His heart went out to the young brunette. Lucy had lost her mother and her best friend in the span of an hour, and by the hands of the same woman no less. And here she was, clutching onto him as if he were her lifeline – her lifeboat.

Fear and relief overwhelmed him. Flynn didn’t want to imagine what would’ve happened to Lucy if he didn’t appear at the right moment. If he had found her lifeless corpse, just lying in the dingy corridor, he would’ve never forgiven himself. On top of his wife and child’s death, he didn’t need Lucy’s on his conscience as well. The pain of that fate would be extremely unbearable for him, considering she had saved his life all those years ago - a debt he could never repay.

As much as seeing her emotionally damaged in his arms, Flynn would be forever grateful to the non-existent gods out in the universe that Lucy was _alive_. God had lead him to her in this forsaken world and he’d be damned if he’d let Him take her away from him. If it weren't for the fact Lucy needed him at that moment, Flynn would kill that _Rittenbitch_ himself.

With a heavy heart, Flynn pulled his face away from hers ever so slightly. Lucy was still crying like a child, sobbing out his name in between hiccups but he didn’t care. He only held her more tightly. He gently caressed her cheek with his left hand, the other still supporting her head, her limp body resting on top of his right knee. He whispered words of reassurances in her ear before nuzzling her face once more.

Flynn held her for however long Lucy was willing to have him before her shuddering ceased. Shifting his knees, he brought her up to stand, still holding her close to his body, tucking her head underneath his chin. Her hands remained limp beside her person but she leaned in his embrace, pressing her face against his chest.

After a few more moments letting her recover, Flynn guided them back to the Lifeboat. The trip back to the saloon was silent, neither wanting to fill the air with aimless chatter. It was neither the time nor place. Even if that weren't the case, what could they say?

Flynn held Lucy close, his good arm wrapped around her shoulder protectively. Out of everything that happened today, this was his way of wordlessly telling her that at the very least, Lucy has him.

When they returned back in 2018, Lucy disappeared in the bunker without so much as a word. The historian wasn’t in her former bedroom which she shared with Jiya, nor was she in the living room where she currently resided. A part of Flynn wondered if Lucy was hiding out in his bedroom, wanting to seek out further yet wordless comfort but of course, she wasn’t.

Trudging his way to the washroom, Flynn was surprised to see her in there, already fresh from a shower. Gone was the bloodied, monochromatic, patterned dress, most likely in the laundry bin. Or thrown out in the trash. The maroon shirt and grey sweats she sported now definitely seemed much more comfortable.  

Lucy glanced his way from where she stood, her once bright, honeyed eyes now dulled as she regarded him through damp strands of her hair. If Flynn didn’t know any better, he would’ve mistook her as a ghost with her pale skin and gaunt eyes.

Noticing that she had no intention on breaking the silence, Flynn cleared his throat and adverted his gaze.

“Sorry. The chair –” He thumbed towards the chair which was supposed to be resting against the entrance door as the house rule stated, but it wasn’t. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Flynn turned around to leave her alone, but her voice stopped him.

“It’s fine,” Lucy dismissed, shuffling behind him. “I’m finished anyways.”

She gathered all her toiletries and towels, making her way past the older man but stopped. She glanced at the big, red blotch on his right shoulder, bright crimson contrasted against the white shirt he stole from 1888.

“You’re hurt,” she pointed out, concern reflected in her honeyed eyes.  

Flynn lips quirked upwards. “Yeah, getting shot is no fun.”

He’d meant it to sound light, almost jokingly but the way Lucy’s eyes darkened, Flynn assumed she took it differently than intended. He didn’t blame her though. It was all thanks to Lady Luck that the bullet didn’t hit any lower. Otherwise, there’s no telling if he would’ve survived the gunshot unlike Rufus or Carol.

He had guessed – if not hoped – Lucy would’ve left it at that and just walk out of the washroom but she surprised him by saying, “Let me help you.”

Out of all things Flynn had expected her to say, Lucy’s offer was definitely not one of them. It was all variations of her leaving him alone in this dingy washroom, to tend to his wounds by himself. So, his brow raised up in disbelief at the suggestion.

Flynn was about to protest, to say that he was perfectly capable of fixing himself up. He had cleaned and stitched many of his injuries before. Like the time when Wyatt shot him a few centimetres higher of where his current wound – no thanks to Emma – resided. It had hurt like a bitch yet it was nothing he couldn’t fix.

But one look at the tiny brunette and he knew there was no room for an argument.

The ex-NSA asset let out a heavy sigh and inclined his head in a nod. Lucy placed her belongings on a nearby ledge and grabbed the metal chair sitting inconspicuously by the washroom door. She lift it up and unfolded it by what used to be white sinks.

Lucy looked at Flynn and shifted her eyes to the chair.

“Sit.”

He raised a thick eyebrow at Lucy’s commanding tone but obeyed nonetheless. He trudged over to the seat and sat down. He tried to shrug off the burgundy suit jacket but he let out a groan, the wound in his right shoulder throbbing painfully.

“Do you need help?” she asked worriedly.

Flynn’s face was contorted in a grimace but he still let out a breathy chuckle. “Why, Lucy – just what are you proposing exactly?” He flashed her a grin. “I’d wait after a couple of dates before we start stripping clothes off each other, don’t you think?” 

Lucy rolled her eyes at his flirtatious teasing, but he didn’t miss the slight quirk in the corner of her lips.

“Don’t be daft. You’re hurt and I need to see the wound. Make sure it’s not infected.”

“Whatever you say, Professor.”

Flynn spread his legs to give the historian some space to move. Moving in between them, Lucy crouched down and carefully worked getting off his blazer. Once they managed to successfully get the offending material off, she tossed it onto the tiled ground beside them, leaving him in his shoes, the matching pants and his 1888s, blood soaked, dress shirt.

Flynn shot her a lazy smirk, almost tauntingly asking her, _‘What now?’_

With deft fingers, she quickly unbuttoned his shirt, gently prying the fabric away from the sticky residue that was his sweat and blood. Sliding it off his arms, Lucy gingerly dropped it on top of the blazer on the floor before assessing the damage Emma had done to him. The brunette paled when she realized it wasn’t a clean shot – the bullet was still lodged in Flynn’s shoulder.

Flynn’s light voice brought her out of her stupor. “So, what’s the diagnosis, Doc?”

Lucy looked up to see his green eyes twinkling down at her in mirth despite the excruciating pain he must be in. She wondered how the in hell Flynn could be so calm. Sure, he was in the military for over a decade and must’ve been shot at countless times but Lucy’s surmised that one can never get used to the pain.

“Um.” She took a shuddering breath. “It doesn’t look infected.”

“And the bad news?”

“The bullet’s still…in there.”

Flynn scoffed lightly. “Ah, it’s not that bad,” he said, hoping to reassure the woman before him. Seeing her face being drained of blood, absolutely pale, he joked, “What? Backing out on me, Lucy? I thought you wanted to help me.”

Lucy glanced at the bloodied wound and then back up at him.

“I-I’m not good with blood like I initially thought.”

It wasn’t the blood that particularly bothered her; it was the bullet wound itself. One too many times, Lucy had seen people she had known get shot. And the two people she held most dear are now dead.

_Mom, Rufus…_

Seeing Flynn in front of her, bare chested and hurt, was an icy reminder that she could’ve lost him too, on top of the other casualties from this rescue mission. Lucy didn’t know if she would’ve survived. The pain of losing her mother, her sister, her best friend and Flynn, it would all be too much for her.

She didn’t know when exactly Flynn became so consequential in her life. She didn’t know when she stopped seeing him as a Garcia Flynn, ex-NSA, terrorist and murderer to just…Flynn – someone she cared for dearly. His smug face, his witty (if not borderline sassy) remarks, his comforting presence, his small obsession with cocoa puff cereals, Flynn made himself essential in her life and Lucy doesn’t know if she can live in another timeline where he wasn’t a part of it.

His eyes softened at her confession. With his good arm, Flynn reached a hand towards Lucy and gently grasped her forearm reassuringly.

“Hey. You got this, Lucy. But if you want to leave, I won’t think any less of you. I’m more than capable of doing this on my own.”

He felt her shoulder tensed up at first but hearing his words of encouragement, she relaxed. “No. No. I want to do this. I want to help you,” Lucy said, the conviction in her voice strong. Still worried, of course, but strong.

“’Atta girl,” Flynn praised, rubbing her shoulder soothingly.

With one last deep exhale, the brunette got up and rummaged through the drawers, looking for anything that seemed remotely useful; first aid kit, rubbing alcohol – anything. Luckily, Lucy found some tucked away in a cabinet. Filling a basin with lukewarm water, she made her way back to his side and doused a freshly washed cloth in it.

Flynn instinctively flinched as she gently dabbed the warm towel across his shoulder, wiping away the dried, crusted blood off his skin.

“Sorry!” She pulled her arm away. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s okay,” he assured, his voice soft spoken. “I’m fine.”

Lucy resumed her ministrations, though with a little more hesitation, gauging his reaction every now and then. Tension left his body as he watched she furrowed her brow in concentration, making sure to clean it properly. 

If it weren’t for the never ending pain constantly throbbing in his shoulder, Flynn would’ve found all of this…relaxing. It had been a long time since anyone cared for him like this. To worry for him. Not since his late wife. Other than his mother, Lorena was the only woman in his life that was constantly worried about his wellbeing when he was off in the military. When he’d come home, she’d welcome him in a bone-crushing embrace, fussing over him, checking his body for battle wounds.

Both women were gone now, but at the very least, Flynn still had Lucy; the woman who (or rather, _will_ ) approached him in a rundown bar in Brazil and saved him from damnation. Even now, crouched in between his legs, methodically running the freshly, wrung out rag over his shoulder, Lucy still cared about him.

“Thank you,” Flynn murmured.

Lucy peered up at the older man and gave him a confused look. “For what? I’m not done yet.”

Flynn didn’t realized he said that aloud. Seeing her head tilt, her brow slightly furrowed in confusion, he let out a small laugh. “Nothing, nothing. Just…thank you. For being here. For helping me.”

“Oh. Anytime.” 

Satisfied that the skin was clean from any offending crusted blood, Lucy got up once more and emptied the basin, rinsing it clean before refilling it with another round of warm water. She returned and the grimace on her face almost mirrored his own.

“Time for the hard part,” she breathed uneasily, mentally bracing herself.

“You got this, Lucy,” Flynn said encouragingly. “You just need to remove the bullet. Everything else will be a breeze.”

“Okay. Do I need to make a tourniquet?”

Flynn looked mildly surprised, almost impressed that she even knew what a tourniquet was. “In this case, no,” he answered. “The wound is in my shoulder, not in a limb like my arm. I should be fine.”

“’Should’ is not very reassuring,” Lucy scowled.

If he could shrug, he would’ve done so in response. Instead, he only said, “I trust you.”

It was true. He did trust her. Despite claiming otherwise a few months ago (granted, she accidentally sent him to prison, so mistrust was definitely warranted), Lucy had proven to be a capable ally, proving herself time after time that she was trustworthy. He may have trusted her with his wife and daughter all those months ago, but now, Flynn trusted her with his life.

“Er, thanks.” Lucy laughed nervously. “No pressure there.”

She opened the first aid kit and was slightly relieved to see this was specifically customized for gunshot wounds. Seeing familiar canisters, Lucy uncorked them both and showed Flynn the bottles.

“Do you want some painkillers and antibiotics before we start?” she asked.

Seeing no harm in having some (and definitely a safe choice since he’s foolishly allowing Lucy to remove a bloody bullet wound from his person), he stuck out his left hand. She dropped down two, large, cylindrical shape pills and Flynn quickly plopped them into his mouth. Once he swallowed them, he gave her a nod.

Lucy quickly sterilized the medical tools in the box with hydrogen peroxide, unsure of the last time it was cleaned. She didn’t want to accidentally kill Flynn through an infection. Pulling out a fresh pair of nitrile gloves, she promptly slid them on over her hands before holding a sterile scalpel and extra-long tweezers.  

She peered up at him. “Ready?”

Flynn inclined his head in a nod, his left hand clutching his thigh, bracing himself from the inevitable pain. He let out a loud hiss as the cool metal probed inside his wound, barely registering the sound of metal clanging inside the metal bowl. Lucy whispered apologies every time he let out a grunt of pain from when she managed to remove shrapnel from the bullet casings.  

He didn’t know how long she took removing the shrapnel. His head throbbed from clenching his jaw tightly, his eyes closed shut. Soon, it will be all over.

Carefully, Lucy finally managed to remove the bullet itself, relived it didn’t nick a major vein. Dropping it into the metal bowl she procured, she quickly made work of irrigating his wound with saline before dressing the injury with gauzes.

Satisfied with her work, she fell back on her bum and let out a sigh of relief. It’s finally over. She was no doctor, but she must admit that she did a better job than she anticipated. With the nervousness and obvious inexperience, she had half a mind to actually let Flynn do the job. Yet, some, foreign, selfish part of her wanted to do this on her own, to reassure herself that he’d be okay. She wanted to confirm that he’ll live by her own hands, however foolish it sounded.

Opening his eyes, Flynn peered down at the woman on the floor and shot her a lazy grin.

“Thanks, Doc,” Flynn said breathlessly, still trying to recover from the pain. “Not your first time I take it?”

Lucy shook her head. “No, it is. I’ve seen Noah do it on Rufus once before and thought I could do it.” She let out a breathy chuckle, equally as tired as the man before her. “Definitely harder than it looks.”

“Ah, yes. The fiancé you never knew that existed.”

“ _Ex-fiancé_ ,” Lucy corrected. “Broke the whole thing off before I was kidnapped by my mom.”

Silence filled the air, both suddenly remembering the recent demise of Carol Preston.

Her mother’s final words rang loudly in Lucy’s mind. _“All you have to do is take it!”_

From what Flynn read in her journal, all she cared about was her eldest daughter; the true heir of Rittenhouse, though Lucy wanted none of this. She didn’t want to meet her sociopathic father, suddenly becoming _Crown Princess_ to an organization that eerily seemed to be copying a neo-Nazi like world. All she wanted was her little sister that. But hell, even her mother erased her from existence all because she wanted more time with her beloved princess.

While Lucy was filled with only more hatred for her mother from her confession, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for her as well. All Carol wanted was to build a strong dynasty for her to inherit, no matter the cost. No matter the morals or lives lost in the process. Even purposely wiping her youngest daughter, Amy, from existence just so Lucy could have it all. Though it was all for naught considering she didn’t even want this legacy that took centuries building up upon.

But still, despite the changes in timelines…Carol was still her mom.

Seeing the conflicting emotions on her face, Flynn wanted nothing more than to hold her again, offering whatever comfort she’d accept from him. She had lost too much already.

“Lucy…”

Hearing the deep timber of his voice brought her out of her musings. Lucy quickly stood up, the dizziness from that slightly blurred her vision. After a moment, she gently shook her head and offered Flynn a small smile.

“Let’s finish getting you cleaned up.”

He opened his mouth to intervene but clamped it shut. If she didn’t want to talk about what happened in 1888, he won’t press her. She’ll open up when she feel she’s ready. Until then, he’ll just wait.

Hopefully, when the time does come, she’ll open up…to him.

The sound of the faucet cranking from the sink followed by the downpour of water echoed loudly in the spacious washroom. Satisfied with the temperature of the running water, Lucy instructed Flynn to tilt his head back over the edge of the sink. With an amused expression, he did as he was told. Once his neck rested against the white, cool ledge, he peered up at her with a smirk – a look she knew all too well.

Flynn closed his eyes as she poured warm water over his brow with a glass cup, seeping into his thin locks. He felt her slender hands run through his damp hair rhythmically and it took all his willpower not to let out a moan of pleasure, however tempting it was.

“This is nice,” he murmured contently, feeling the tension and pain leaving his body. It was as if his bones suddenly disappeared and it was her hands that was supporting all his weight. Or perhaps the antibiotics are finally kicking in. Either way, Flynn didn’t want Lucy to stop, especially when she lathered her hands until it was covered in the soapy suds and raked his scalp with her fingers. That was absolutely heavenly.

Lucy chuckled, clearly enjoying watching Flynn turn into a puddle under her repetitious yet comforting actions.

“Don’t get used to it,” she warned though her voice held no bite to it.

“Yes, Professor.”

She smiled at the sound of her former title. Lucy had a feeling it was meant to be mocking but she couldn’t really take him seriously; not when his usual, haggard face was drooped into a look of utter bliss and the epitome of relaxation. Though, she didn’t blame him. After the horrid and tragic day they’ve experienced, they deserve this rare moment of peace in each other’s company.

Even when Lucy was doing a menial yet unusual task such as washing his hair, she found herself being able to relax, though they all knew such luxury will be short lived. But in here, in this sorry excuse of a washroom, they can pretend that nothing is wrong; being safe in this little, comforting bubble they created to escape the harsh reality of their world. Just for a little while.

Satisfied when his dark hair was foamy with the scentless shampoo, she began to rinse it all off. With the brief few seconds every time she was waiting for the cup to fill up, Lucy stole a few glances at Flynn’s resting face. It was marred with dried blood and dirt, no doubt belonging to her when he rested his forehead against her own back in the dingy alleyway.

If she looked closely, a five o’clock shadow was appearing on his chin and cheeks. With his dominant arm injured, she wondered if he was able to shave it off by himself.

“Like what you see, Lucy?” Flynn teased, showing her a row of his pearly white teeth.

Lucy ignored his little taunt. “Did you bring your razor?” she asked.

He gave her a noise of confirmation, his voice gravelly. “I did. It’s by my towel over there. Why?”

“Do you want me to shave your face while I’m at it or do you think you can manage?”

“Why, Lucy, pulling all the stops today, eh?” Even with his eyes closed, he can see the historian shooting him an unimpressed look. He let out a resigned sigh. “Your help is very much appreciated, thanks.”

Finished rinsing off all the soap, Lucy turned off the tap and dried off her hands. She excused herself for a moment to get his belongings.

Despite the constant teasing, Flynn was actually touched that Lucy was willing to do all this for him. No one asked her to take the bullet out of his chest, or wash his hair or just to be with him while everyone was grieving. She voluntarily offered her help and company and that alone made his chest warm with happiness – a dangerous feeling he shouldn’t have.

Then again, he’s never know her to be a selfish person. Even when reading her journal that she will eventually write, all her entries proved her to be an absolutely selfless person. Always putting everyone’s happiness above her own. She even risked her life, travelling in her own time stream to save him from killing himself, giving Flynn an alternative to focus his hatred on her lineage instead.

What Flynn didn’t anticipate was falling for her.

He didn’t know when it happened, exactly; the moment where she wormed herself into his dead heart and shocked it back to life.  If it weren’t for the physical reminder of her journal constantly being on his person, Flynn would’ve never believed her to be real. A time traveller who knew everything about his life and how to _change_ it? Hell, even to his own ears, he sounded like he was drunk off his ass. Until he saw her again two years later in 2016 (or rather, in 1937), though it was her younger self.

Ever since, it had been an emotional hurricane leading up to this moment. Full of tears, screams, death threats, kept promises, laughter, and love did they finally manage to be together. Though he knew she wasn’t in love with him, she had feelings for him – anyone with eyes could see that. But he respected her enough to let her come to her feelings on her own terms.

A soft _‘ahem’_ startled him out of his inner musings and he opened his eyes though a bit reluctantly. He gazed up to see Lucy peering down at him, holding his grey towel in her hand. With a groan, he shifted his body into a sitting positions, letting his head droop forwards. Little droplets of water rapidly fell down his hair and onto his face.

Lucy stood between his spread out legs and draped the towel over his head, drying his hair. Flynn sighed, placing his good arm on her hip, fighting the urge to fall asleep from how all good it felt. If he propped himself up on his knees, there was no doubt that would actually fall asleep right then and there. At least, this way, the numbing feeling in his arm from holding up would keep himself awake.

If it bothered Lucy, she didn’t voice it. She just continued rubbing his head, trying to wipe away all the moisture from his soaked hair. Once she finished, she patted away the left over water that dripped onto his bare shoulders off with the towel.

She promptly sprayed out shaving cream from canister onto her hand before smearing the white froth across his stubble. With careful strokes, Lucy moved the blade downwards, trying her hardest not to nick him while occasionally stopping to rinse it clean from the hair and foam off.

“There,” she announced when she finished, placing the razor on the edge of the sink. “Good as new. Well, not _good as new_ , but you get what I mean.”

Lucy handed him his bath towel and he removed his hand from her waist, grabbing it. After wiping his face with the cloth, Flynn ran his left hand over his cheeks and then chin; he impressed when he felt no offending hairs pricking his fingers. Lucy had done a fine job, much to his surprise. _Another one of her many hidden talents, I assume._

“I trust you can handle…” She gestured to his bare chest and covered legs, Lucy's face heating up in slight embarrassment. “…Cleaning yourself. Without my help.”

“Well, if you’re offering…” Flynn grinned at her mischievously and laughed at her object horror. “I’m just kidding. I can do the rest on my own, Lucy.” His eyes softened. “Thank you.”

She nodded her head meekly in response. “Well…if that’s it, I’m just gonna head out now.” Lucy pointed towards the door. “Yeah.”

Before she could gather her personal belongings and leave, Flynn called out to her.

“Lucy,” he said, and she turned around to face him. “What happened today, with your mother and Rufus – I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve done more.”

Her smile dropped. “Their deaths, it’s not on you, Flynn.” Lucy walked towards him and with slight hesitation, she placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “My mother’s or Rufus’s death, it wasn’t your fault. Okay? You didn’t shoot them. It was Emma.”  

Logically, Flynn knew that. He knew their demises were not on him. But that didn’t mean he still felt responsible somehow; he believed they all shared the blame in some way. And while he wanted to shove all the blame onto Wyatt and his blind love he had for his Rittenhouse wife, if he were in the same situation with Iris and Lorena, he would’ve done the same. But that still didn’t diminish the hate he’d felt for Wyatt.

Though, his burning hatred for the ginger Rittenbitch, Emma, surpassed Wyatt.

“If anything happened to you, Lucy…” Seeing Emma pinning Lucy helplessly to the ground, beating the life out of her, Flynn would never get over the intense fear he felt in the pit of his stomach. Hearing her brokenly whisper his name as he clutched her tightly against him, her tears hot on his cheeks, he sworn to himself that he wouldn’t allow her to get hurt again. An impossible promise, but damn, he will try. For her.

Mimicking what he had done to her in the alleyway, Lucy bent over so she’s eye level with Flynn and gently grasped his shaven cheeks in her hands, pressing her forehead against his own. The action surprised him but it was not unwelcome. He leaned in closer, and closed his eyes, listening to the rhythmic sounds of their breathing.

“I’m okay, Flynn,” Lucy reassured softly, gently stroking his cheek with the pad of her thumb, her voice almost a whisper. “I’m alive and I’m safe. All because of you.”

Flynn let out a shuddered exhale, processing her words. He had let an important cog in the Rittenhouse empire go just so he could save her. And not once did he ever regretted it. He raised his left hand and threaded it into her damp hair, pressing her head closer to his. He murmured Lucy’s name under his breath as she continued stroking his face.

They didn’t know how long they remained like that, basking in each other’s comfort. They mourned for their friend and they counted their blessings that they survived.

With reluctance from both sides, they pulled away from each other, feeling oddly empty.

Lucy was the one to break the silence with a soft cough. “I guess I should go.”

Flynn nodded his head in agreement. He still needed to get cleaned up before another wave of drowsiness hits him again. Just as she was about to leave, he said, “Again, thank you for helping me, Lucy. I really appreciate it.”

Her honeyed eyes softened at his gratitude. Lucy was glad she was able to help him even though it wasn’t warranted. Flynn could’ve cleaned and dressed his wound all by himself and he could’ve definitely washed his own hair and shaved his face. From being in the military for nearly two decades, he had plenty of experiences doing this sort of thing whereas Lucy had none, until today.  

Flynn allowing – no, trusting – her to do this for him made her feel that they were getting closer. Just over a year ago, they were at constantly at each other’s throats, standing on the opposite of this invisible war. He begged her to join him on his crusade while she labelled him as a psychopathic monster. But the truths came out and turned out Flynn was right about everything all along. The moment she helped him escape from jail was the turning point in their relationship. She trusted him, she cared for him and maybe…she’s starting to feel more for him. How could she not when his dark, green eyes glazed over her as if she were the most beautiful and interesting person in the world?

With reddened cheeks, Lucy replied, “Anytime.”

Maybe, just maybe, she and Flynn could be more than just friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a kudos if you liked it! If you want to go the extra mile, leave a comment as well! Any appreciation continues to help me being motivated and writing fics for you guys!


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